


when the sun comes (try not to hate the light)

by ThunderstormsandMemories



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood Drinking, F/F, Multi, Other, Reunions, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 15:49:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17942621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThunderstormsandMemories/pseuds/ThunderstormsandMemories
Summary: "Did you explicitly invite him?""I mean I-" Juno’s memories of that night weren’t exactly the clearest but he was pretty sure he’d grumbled something along the lines of 'come on in' and Nureyev had held the door for him and smiled too brightly and said 'after you, ladies first'- “I guess I did, yeah. Dammit, Rita, why did I do that?” She opened her mouth, looking entirely too eager to answer, but he cut her off with, “Yeah, no, actually, don’t say anything. I know, I know, I was being stupid and desperate and-”“Actually,” Rita said softly, “I was going to say because you’re a romantic. I think it’s real sweet.”“I’m a sap, you mean,” Juno said. “Falling for the first pretty face that smiles my way, and it turns out he’s not even human.”OR,in which Peter Nureyev is a vampire, and Rita and Sasha go on a series of coffee dates





	when the sun comes (try not to hate the light)

**Author's Note:**

> written for the Penumbra Mini Bang, many thanks to the mods for organizing this and giving me the motivation/opportunity to write something so completely self-indulgent, to Zan for beta-ing this and listening to me yell nonstop about vampires, and of course most importantly to Jay for the amazing artwork which I have been also yelling nonstop about ever since I first saw it. seriously, thank you so much for your art, it's beautiful and perfect and I absolutely adore it!!!
> 
> (see the end notes for more detailed warnings)

 

> Is that too much to expect? That I would name the stars
> 
> for you? That I would take you there?
> 
>                 - Richard Siken (Snow and Dirty Rain)

I.

In the months after the dramatic departure of Rex Glass—or rather, apparently, Peter Nureyev—Juno found himself doing research. Well. That wasn’t entirely true. Rita did lots of research for him and then left her notes on his desk on top of the notes of the case that they were both supposed to be working on instead, and then when he still didn’t read them, she took it upon herself to tell him all about her findings.

“A vampire?” he said, just to make sure he’d heard her correctly and she was really trying to convince him that some fairy tale monster was real. “Really? That’s the best you could come up with?”

“I’m serious, Mr. Steel, now listen to _this_ , you’re gonna love it.” She shoved aside his case notes—“Hey, I was working on those!” “No you weren’t, you were falling asleep at your desk again and you really gotta sleep more at night but you gotta stay awake for this right now because this is important!”—to sit on his desk, shuffle through her notecards, clear her throat, and begin lecturing.

So he listened, and Rita told him about vampire lore from across all of recorded history and at least a dozen planets, highlighting the bits she thought were relevant to the situation at hand. She was probably right, as ridiculous as it sounded, as much as he hated to admit it. She usually was with things like this, and sometimes the more absurd her explanation the more inclined Juno was to believe her.

The thing that gives him pause was sunlight supposedly being harmful, if not outright deadly, and one of the main commonalities across the vast majorities of the legends. “He _is_ from outer space,” Rita said, “and what about those sunglasses he never took off? I mean I guess it could just be fashion, because gosh they sure did look good on him, but what if it’s because his eyes are really really sensitive because he’s,” she lowered her voice dramatically, as if this hadn’t been what they’d been talking about all afternoon, and she’d already said the word out loud several times, “a vampire.” Maybe her dramatics were justified. Juno felt a shiver go down his spine when she said it, thinking about Rex and his dark glasses and his just-a-little-bit-too-sharp teeth.

“Sunglasses are part of the Dark Matters uniform,” Juno said. “Sasha wears them. And don’t- don’t say Sasha might be a vampire too, I don’t think I could take it.”

“Oh! Oh, I know!” Rita said, nearly knocking over Juno’s coffee—now long gone cold—in her excitement. “Maybe they’re all vampires! Maybe that’s why it’s called Dark Matters in the first place.”

“Except he doesn’t really work for them,” Juno pointed out, but his skepticism was starting to crumble, and the more he looked at the pieces of Rex Glass or Peter Nureyev or whoever the hell he was that didn’t make sense, the more those pieces seemed to fit together to form the picture Rita was painting.

Rita looked slightly crestfallen that Dark Matters probably wasn’t a secret vampire coven, but she perked up quickly enough when she started going through her notes again and said, “What about this? Vampires have to be invited across the threshold of someone’s home. Did you explicitly invite him in?”

“I mean I-” Juno’s memories of that night weren’t exactly the clearest but he was pretty sure he’d grumbled something along the lines of _come on in_ and Nureyev had held the door for him and smiled too brightly and said _after you, ladies first_ \- “I guess I did, yeah. Dammit, Rita, why did I do that?” She opened her mouth, looking entirely too eager to answer, but he cut her off with, “Yeah, no, actually, don’t say anything. I know, I know, I was being stupid and desperate and-”

“Actually,” Rita said softly, “I was going to say because you’re a romantic. I think it’s real sweet.”

“I’m a sap, you mean,” Juno said. “Falling for the first pretty face that smiles my way, and it turns out he’s not even human.”

 

II.

When Sasha called again, Rita assumed she had the wrong number, except someone like Sasha didn’t do anything by accident, or that she was trying to reach Juno, who was probably ignoring his comms again, and offered to try to find him for her.

“I don’t want to talk to Juno, or about Juno,” said Sasha. “I want to talk about you.”

“Oh,” Rita said, laughing nervously under the full force of all of Agent Sasha Wire’s attention focused directly on her. She was intimidating, and it was a good look on her. “And what would you want with little old me, when Mr. Steel is out there looking so grumpy all the time because he went and got his heart broken by a vampire?”

“Rita,” she said, and her expression was stern, severe, but Rita thought her voice sounded more amused than disapproving. Or at least she hoped so. “You hacked into the very very secure Dark Matters database. It’s so secure that by most definitions it doesn’t even exist."

“Well,” Rita said, “it’s not like it was that hard, honestly. You just gotta-” she stopped herself, just in case she was about to say anything incriminating—she didn’t think she’d done anything especially illegal but you never knew with these secret organization types—or worse, bore a pretty lady with a long explanation she couldn’t care less about.

Juno was always bored with her explanations, but she didn’t need to impress him the same way. She already knew he respected her, even if sometimes he wasn’t so good at showing it, and anyways it was different, it just was. He was her boss, and her friend, and Sasha Wire really was very pretty, and Rita very much hoped she was enjoying their conversation, and might like to have another one at some point.

“You’ve just got to… what exactly?” Sasha prompted, seeming sincerely interested, and Rita grinned before launching into an explanation that some might have called meandering but Rita called comprehensive, and Sasha was a very good listener. She nodded and hummed and looked suitably impressed in all the right places, and she even laughed once, at a pun that Rita had made specifically hoping that Sasha would catch it.

“That’s very impressive,” Sasha said. “If you’re ever looking for a job…”

“No thanks,” Rita said hurriedly. “I like my job right now and no offense but I’m not really a secret government organization kind of girl—no offense!”

“None taken,” Sasha said dryly. “So, if you don’t mind me asking, what else do you like to do? Besides keeping Juno’s life together and hacking into top secret databases?”

“Are you sure you wanna ask?” Rita said. “Because once I get going I can talk for hours and I don’t want to keep you if you have important top secret mission stuff you have to do instead.”

Sasha smiled, and for a moment Rita forgot how to breathe. “I left my schedule open,” she said, “and I like listening to you talk.”

“If you say so,” said Rita, and before she knew it, several very enjoyable hours had passed, during which she and Sasha had an enthusiastic conversation about the last film Rita had seen and the incredibly unrealistic pseudoscience in it, and what other cryptids she thought Dark Matters might be covering up, and Sasha’s secret love of one of Rita’s favorite streams, only cut off when an alarm sounded on Sasha’s end.

“I’m sorry, I really do have to go deal with that,” she said, “but it was lovely talking to you.”

“You too!” Rita said. “Feel free to call anytime!”

And she was about to hang up when Sasha said, more hesitant than she had been all afternoon, “Hey, do you want to get coffee next time I’m on Mars?”

“Why, Agent Wire,” Rita said, grinning broadly, “how did you guess? I would love to.”

 

III.

Their room was very small, small enough that the only place to sit semi-comfortably was side by side on the couch, and Nureyev was very close, too close, close enough that Juno could see his dark eyes and the sharp tips of his fangs, just visible above his slightly parted lips. Juno’s throat suddenly felt very dry, and it occurred to him, a moment too late, that Nureyev was looking slightly more vampiric than usual, and Juno would be lying to himself if he wasn’t at least a little bit into it. Well, he’d never had the best danger-avoidance instincts, and luckily he was well-practiced at lying to himself.

In an effort to distract himself, he asked Nureyev the first question that came to mind—well, second, but the first wasn’t appropriate for trying to maintain a business partnership with someone whom you barely knew well enough to consider an ex—because Nureyev was uncharacteristically quiet, and there was a tension in his shoulders that Juno hadn’t seen before. “So are you, like, okay?”

“Of course, Juno, just peachy,” Nureyev said, so lightly than he had to be lying, with just enough of a sardonic edge that Juno felt stupid for having asked. There was a pause, and then he said, “Haven’t you done your research? You’re a detective, surely you’ve figured out what I am.” He spread his arms as widely as the confined space allowed, smiling broadly in a way that showed off his unnaturally pointed teeth to full dramatic effect.

“Of course!” Juno said indignantly, and then, shrugging sheepishly, “Well, Rita did, but she told me everything important. Also plenty that wasn’t important. Did you know that there are more direct-to-stream romance films about vampires than any other genre except for werewolves and space alien possession?” Nureyev raised an eyebrow, waiting, and Juno said, “What? If it exists, Rita’s probably seen it, or at least seen an interview with someone who was in it.”

“Impressive,” said Nureyev, and Juno couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. “I’m not doubting your secretary’s research capabilities, but I do hope you didn’t get all of your vampire knowledge from the streams. For instance, I’ve never been able to transform into a swarm of bats, as useful as that might occasionally be.” He wasn’t looking at Juno, and in fact seemed to be pointedly looking anywhere except at Juno, which was quite a feat considering they were barely inches apart.

“Wait,” Juno said slowly, "when was the last time you… fed? Drank? I’m not sure what you want me to call it.”

“You can call me anything you like,” Nureyev said, sounding for a moment almost like Rex Glass, and then he said, more seriously, “It doesn’t really matter, to be honest. It’s not as though there’s anyone that I would talk to about it.” There was a story there, and Juno wanted to know it but he didn’t want to ask. Nureyev didn’t owe him his past, his story, and more than anything Juno didn’t want to hear any more of his frustratingly cryptic non-answers.

“Do you wanna…” Juno said hesitantly, desperately trying to think of a way to phrase what he meant without it sounding like a proposition.

“I’ll manage,” Nureyev said, still not looking directly at Juno, and Juno realized that his strange stillness was that he wasn’t breathing. If Rita’s research was to be believed, he didn’t need to breathe because he was, technically, already dead, and it occurred to Juno that he was probably trying to avoid smelling his blood. Which must’ve meant he’d gone for far too long without drinking, because he’d managed the whole ordeal with Grim’s Mask without giving himself away, and there had been far too much blood spilled for Nureyev to handle if he’d been as thirsty as he seemed right now.

“Will you?” Juno said. “Because I have to rely on you to get through this, and I’d rather be sure that you’re not going to collapse, or go feral, or whatever else happens when you get too… dehydrated.”

“If you insist,” Nureyev said. He finally met Juno’s eyes, and he looked as though he thought he should refuse but couldn’t bring himself to do it. His fangs looked even more pronounced.

“Yeah,” Juno said, “I do. We’re working together, right? So it only makes sense. You need blood, and I’m right here. Where else are you going to find such an easy snack?”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Nureyev said. “You did look quite delicious tonight.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Juno said. “We gonna do this or not?”

He turned his face away, offering Nureyev his neck and closing his eyes. It felt like a kiss at first, Nureyev’s lips soft against his throat, gentle at first and then more insistent, like they were teenagers first figuring out how to leave bruises, and one of Nureyev’s hands on his shoulder was holding them both steady. Juno shivered and leaned into the contact, and the cynical part of him mocked himself for being so desperate and touch-starved that he was drawing so much comfort from _this_ . He barely felt the pain when Nureyev’s fangs pierced his skin, and the part of his brain still capable of rational thought recalled Rita’s research, remembered her saying that some people—“though, to be fair, mostly the kinds of people who write direct-to-stream romance films, but some of them are good, boss, you gotta give _Vampire Island Masquerade_ a chance”—said that being bitten by a vampire was meant to feel good, even that something in their fangs acted almost like an aphrodisiac.

And then he stopped caring, stopped thinking, because he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this _good_ , and he just wanted it to last forever, wanted more, and more, and Nureyev was drinking him dry and Juno wanted to let him.

And then Nureyev pulled away, and Juno let out an involuntary sigh, feeling like every muscle in his body was more relaxed than it had ever been, all of the tension melted away and replaced by deep and complete satisfaction with just enough of an ache from Nureyev’s teeth to serve as a reminder.

Nureyev smiled lazily at him, and he looked healthier and happier, more _alive_ than ever, and Juno was staring, and Nureyev was watching him and licking blood from his fingers, and somehow meeting his eyes felt like the most intimate thing Juno had ever done, even though his tongue had been in Nureyev’s mouth and now his blood was in his veins.

 

 

The moment stretched and held for a beat longer, until Juno shrugged awkwardly, feeling the heat in his face, and said, a little rougher than he expected, “So this vampire thing. Is it contagious? Am I gonna start sprouting fangs now too?”

“Oh, did your secretary’s research not tell you that?” Nureyev said, but he said it fondly, and Juno did his best to ignore how that made him feel.

“Rita told me lots of things,” Juno said, “but excuse me for not believing everything she found on the net about an urban legend. Some sources said you don’t have a reflection but you can’t look like that without being able to see yourself in a mirror.”

“Oh, Juno, you flatter me,” Nureyev said, even as he smirked and fluttered his eyelids in a way that showed off his perfectly even eyeliner and yeah, there was no way even Nureyev, with his clever hands, could do that without looking.

“Nah, that’s just facts,” said Juno, before realizing he was digging an even deeper hole for himself and desperately looking for a different direction to drag the conversation in. “Anyway, I’ve even seen you outside during the day, so how do I know you’re even really a vampire, maybe you’re just….” His voice trailed off as he failed to think up any other reason Nureyev would have needed to drink his blood.

“Not all of the legends are true, you’re right,” said Nureyev. “It would be highly inconvenient if I burned at the touch of silver, for example. And to answer your question, no, it takes a bit more intentionality to create another vampire. Being fed on is perfectly safe, as long as the vampire in question is careful.”

“And you’re always careful,” Juno said, more to himself than to Nureyev, thinking about the precision and intent behind every one of his movements, every one of his words. How well he’d fooled Engstrom, and the Kanagawas, and Juno.

“Of course,” Nureyev said. “First rule of thieving.” He laughed as he said it, but it was a harsh laugh, almost like a cough. “The part about needing an invitation to enter a home is true, however,” he added, and Juno stared.

“You’re a thief,” he said. “Your entire career is entering people’s home without permission.”

“Not true,” said Nureyev indignantly. “Sometimes I break into their offices, or museums. Or trains.” He gestured around them. “With enough imagination, there’s no limit to the spaces you can steal from.”

“Alright, whatever,” Juno said, not wanting to hear any more about Nureyev’s fabulous life of committing crimes.

“It’s an art, Juno,” Nureyev said. “You can’t just break in without permission, so you have to figure out how to get permission.”

“So you’re not even a burglar,” Juno said, “you’re just a conman.”

“Now, that’s a little unfair,” Nureyev said. “I happen to be a very good conman.”

“Not something you should be proud of,” Juno said, and Nureyev just laughed. “Okay, but this home thing. What counts as a home?”

“It’s subjective,” Nureyev said, “and personal. Sometimes it surprises me, the places someone considers to be a home. But for the purposes of my restrictions it has to be a building. Otherwise I could never step foot in Hyperion City, for instance.” He tipped his head toward Juno, which was fair. It was true that he considered the whole city to be _his_ in some deep sense of identity that went beyond belonging, beyond love.

“What about churches?” Juno said, because he vaguely remembered Rita saying something about prayers and religious symbols being used to combat vampires back on Earth.

“Are churches homes?” Nureyev said. “Well, I suppose in an abstract sense they’re the homes of gods, but that generally doesn’t stop me from breaking in. The legends about being burned by religious symbols and such are only true for those who believe in them.”

“Sure,” Juno said, because his experience with most legends was that they were generally mattered most to those who believed in them.

“I mean that literally, Juno,” Nureyev said. “It’s about whatever any given vampire believes in. It’s not just about religion, not inherently, though certainly that’s a common one. But only something you truly put your faith in has the power to hurt you.”

“What do you believe in?” Juno asked, before he could stop himself, but Nureyev just smiled mysteriously.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he said. “But I believe you were asking metaphysical questions about the concept of home?”

“Yeah,” Juno said. “What about your own home? Can you come inside your own home without permission?” He realized, as he said it, that it might have been an insensitive question to ask someone who seemingly had no home and belonged everywhere and nowhere, but he was also genuinely curious about the limitations. Could be useful, if he ever had to apprehend another hypothetical vampire thief on a case someday. He’d never encountered one before, that he knew of, but it could be one of those things, where once you noticed something you couldn’t stop noticing it and suddenly you were seeing it everywhere.

Nureyev shrugged uncomfortably, his smile looking a little more forced than it had a moment ago, but then he waved his hand airily and the moment passed. “Wouldn’t know,” he said. “It’s been a very long time since I’ve stayed in one place long enough to consider it one. Although they do say some would consider home to be people rather than a place.”

Juno snorted. “So does that mean you need permission before you, y’know,” he raised his eyebrows suggestively, “come inside that type of home too?”

Nureyev laughed, far harder than Juno’s immature attempt at humor deserved, until Juno was laughing along with him. He blamed it on being lightheaded from the blood loss.

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Nureyev said, managing to sound remarkably serious for someone who had just emerged from a fit of laughter. “I’m a vampire, not a fae. My existence doesn’t rely on wordplay and innuendo.”

“Are the fae real then too?” said Juno, and he really hoped not because there was only so much suspension of disbelief he could take. Ancient Martians, sure. Vampires, why not. Fae, though, were a step too far.

“I haven’t met one yet, that I know of,” said Nureyev, “but I haven’t been everywhere yet.”

“Okay, but seriously,” Juno said, “do you really believe that? About home being a person?”

Nureyev shrugged. “The universe is a big place, detective, full of impossible things, far more than you or I could ever dream of. I died, and yet I’m not dead. Out of all the people in the galaxy, you and I met each other. With all those miracles, why shouldn’t a home be wherever two people are together?”

Juno laughed, a little too harshly, and then felt bad for being a jerk again and said, “Sure, if you’re into miracles. Always felt a little too fairy tale for me.” _You didn’t always mind fairy tales_ , whispered a dark, traitorous corner of his mind, which he ignored and shoved back down and regretted ever awakening.

“Now you’re just being stubborn,” Nureyev said, which was fair, but that didn’t mean Juno had to like it.

“You’re only getting that now?”

“I just mean,” Nureyev said, pausing, watching Juno intently, his eyes dark and his hand so close to Juno’s it was almost more effort to not reach out and take it than to stay still, “I believe it could be possible. With the right people.”

 

IV.

They did eventually end up meeting for coffee, though not exactly under the circumstances that Rita would have preferred. Maybe it would have been different, if Sasha’s work schedule had taken her back to Mars before Juno’s disappearance, and maybe then Rita could have told herself that Sasha had taken a job on Mars just to see her in person, and it would all be very romantic, almost like something out of a movie except better because it would be real and have all of the little things about falling in love with someone that somehow never quite managed to translate to the big screen. Sasha _was_ back because Rita had called her, yes, but she was back because Rita had called to tell her that Juno was missing.

They met at a cafe near the office, and when Rita took Sasha’s coat their hands touched and it was like an electric spark. Or maybe that was just the static, but Rita wanted to believe that sparks flying could be literal.

Sasha hadn’t heard anything helpful about Juno’s disappearance, even with her mysterious Dark Matters resources that she could only vaguely imply to Rita that she had, but she promised to do everything in her power, and also a few things that weren’t technically within her power but she was going to try to do them anyway.

Rita had, of course, done quite a bit on her own already, including some illegal hacking that she told Sasha about anyway, because by now she figured Sasha didn’t actually care, and anyway Sasha looked pretty impressed, actually, which Rita counted as half a victory. It wasn’t a full victory, because she hadn’t found Juno by doing it. And then she lapsed into miserable silence, and she expected Sasha to stand up and leave, because they’d exchanged all the information they had, but instead Sasha stayed with her and said, “How are you doing? Really, how are you holding up?”

“Oh, you know me,” Rita said, because even though this was the first time they’d met in person, she felt like it was true. “I’m always fine.”

“Rita,” Sasha said. “I grew up with Juno. And right now you sound like him, and not in a good way.”

“I’m just so worried,” she said, and she heard the way her voice sounded choked with tears but willed herself not to cry. She’d foolishly worn eye makeup, because she was meeting Sasha, and it looked too good to smudge with tears. “People don’t just vanish. I know Juno isn’t most people, and that if he can’t find trouble he’ll create it, but this is just ridiculous. I don’t even know if he’s still on Mars.”

“Juno will be fine,” Sasha said. “He’s good at getting into trouble, but he’s even better at getting out of it, and besides, he has us looking out for him.” She did stand up then, and Rita thought she was leaving and wished she wouldn’t, but she was only getting up to order them drinks—tea for her, and an improbably pink, foamy latte for Rita.

The drink caught Rita’s eyes, which drew her gaze to Sasha’s hands, strong and steady and capable, and she shivered, wondering what it would be like to hold hands with her, to feel those hands touching her.

When Sasha held out the mug for her to take, she was so distracted that she dropped it, or rather failed to grab onto it at all. But before she had a chance to do more than spiral through the stages of grief at making a mess of Sasha’s clothes—this wasn’t a movie, and they were in a public place, so it probably wouldn’t result in Sasha taking off her clothes—Sasha somehow, moving quicker than Rita thought possible, caught it smoothly and offered it back to Rita without spilling a single drop of whipped cream.

Rita took the mug, firmly this time, though she could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, and then she said, “That was very impressive of you, Agent Wire. You’re very impressive.”

Sasha coughed into her hand, and Rita could swear she saw a blush creeping up her face as she said, “You really are remarkable, do you know that? I’ve never met anyone else quite like you.”

“You either, Agent Wire”

“Please, call me Sasha,” she said. “We’re close enough now”

“Sure thing, Agent Sasha,” she said, and then, charging on before she could think better of it: “I know this isn’t exactly the best of situations, and I wish we could’ve just met up because we wanted to, and of course I’m still real worried about Mr. Steel but I feel better now, like it’s gonna be okay somehow, now that you’re here with me.”

“And I feel better, being with you,” Sasha said. “Hopefully next time it will be under better circumstances.”

 

V.

The door opened and Peter stumbled inside, and Miasma was gone, and there, laying motionless in the center of the room, was Juno, body twisted at an unnatural angle, one side of his face a dark slick of blood with a gaping ruin where his eye should have been, and something inside of him snapped— _you brought him here, he trusted you, he’s dead and it’s your fault, he’s dead, he’s_ —and he fell to his knees at Juno’s side, hands scrambling for Juno’s, desperately pressing fingers to his wrist and finally finding his pulse, weak and faint but still stubbornly present.

Peter closed his eyes, holding onto Juno’s wrist like a lifeline, and tried to think clearly about any of this, above the mingled panic about Juno and relief that Miasma was gone and the overpowering scent of Juno’s blood. Because Juno was bleeding out in his arms, and there was nothing he could do about it. They were in the middle of nowhere, too far from any hospital, and that would’ve been a long shot at this point anyway. Peter had become somewhat of an expert in how blood the human body could lose and still manage to cling to life, and Juno was rapidly approaching the point of no return.

There was, of course, something he could do. But it wasn’t an option he particularly wanted to consider. For one thing, he’d already offered it, and been refused. True, he didn’t explicitly offer to turn Juno when he’d first offered to run away with him, but still. It was a statement of permanence, of commitment, that he wasn’t sure he should be making, given the uncertain status of their relationship, last minute confessions of love notwithstanding. And it wasn’t a decision to be made lightly. Not that Peter was taking this lightly, but Juno should at least be awake for it, should be able to agree to something that wouldn’t just save his life but make him immortal in the process. A small, guilty part of Peter thought that maybe it was for the best, because Juno had already chosen to die to defeat Miasma, and Peter had a sneaking suspicion that he would want to stand by that choice. But he was dying, and Peter was the one who had to choose now, and there was really only one choice that he could live with making.

Juno might hate this. Juno would probably hate this, and curse Peter’s name, but at least he would be alive to do it, and if he never wanted to see Peter again, then fine. So be it. Sure, Peter had hoped, and Juno had said- but none of that mattered if Juno was dead. He was stalling, he realized, trying to convince himself it was and Juno didn’t have that kind of time.

He was in too much of a hurry to be neat about it, opting instead to tear open his wrist with his teeth, and he held the wound to Juno’s mouth. For a heart-stopping moment, nothing happened, and Peter almost thought it was already too late, that his brief indecision had cost Juno’s life. But then he felt pressure at his wrist, and then Juno’s teeth were latched around his arm and his eyes were—his eye was still closed but he was drinking and that meant he was going to live. Well, some might not consider it living, but it was Peter’s life, and he certainly felt that he was alive, even though probably technically the term was undead. Juno, on the other hand, didn’t seem to consider his current life to be living most of the time, so it was anyone’s guess what immortality would do to his existential state. He would survive it, though. He was tough and stubborn and Peter loved that about him, and he was distracted enough by that thought that he almost noticed too late that pretty soon he would be the one with critical blood loss, as Juno grabbed at Peter’s arm like he was trying to shove his entire hand in his mouth, and Peter’s fingers were unresponsive and numb.

He tried to pull his arm away and Juno held on for a moment longer before his eye—now open—rolled back and he slumped to the ground again, Peter’s blood staining his lips and teeth and tongue and dripping down his chin.

 

VI.

The first thing Nureyev said to him, when he woke up after the explosion, with a splitting headache and an empty growl of hunger in his stomach and something wrong with his vision that he couldn’t quite place, was, “Oh, Juno, I’m so sorry.”

He tried to sit up, but the room was spinning, and too bright and too dark at the same time, and his face felt sticky with dried blood that he couldn’t seem to blink out of one of his eyes and then he remembered and immediately wished he hadn’t.

But there was something else that was off, something he still couldn’t make sense of, the sharpness of everything he could smell—the overwhelming coppery stench of his own blood, something strange and sickly that could only be all that was left of Miasma, Nureyev’s cologne—and Nureyev’s apology, and the fact that he somehow wasn’t dead, despite losing so much blood that he felt sick at the thought of it.

He was still struggling to sit up but fell back, coughing so hard that he tasted blood, and Nureyev held him for a moment until he stopped shaking, his arms steady and comforting, and then helped him to his feet.

“What happened?” Juno said, his own voice sounding strangely distant against the ringing in his ears, still leaning heavily on Nureyev for support. He wasn’t sure he could stand on his own yet, and didn’t want to test that theory here and now. Mostly all he wanted was to get far away from this place. And then to find something to eat.

They found a hotel in Hyperion that wouldn’t ask too many questions—he had wiped the blood away as best he could but he was still very obviously missing an eye—and then Nureyev took Juno’s hands and began to explain.

Juno’s ears were still ringing, but he didn’t think it was just from the aftermath of the explosion anymore. This was too much to process, more than he had expected to have to process, though if he was being honest with himself he hadn’t really expected to be able to process anything, since he hadn’t exactly counted on surviving. But Nureyev had saved his life, for today and for the rest of eternity, and sometimes he could barely get through one day so what the hell was he supposed to do with forever? What was he supposed to do with someone who wanted to give him the stars and the universe and everything he had ever been too afraid to dream of?

“Juno, please believe me,” Nureyev said, his voice breaking, and Juno did, and wasn’t that the problem, hadn’t that always been the problem? “I would not have done this if there had been any other choice. You were dying.”

“I know,” Juno said. He reached up and touched Nureyev’s face gently with one hand, bushing back a stray piece of hair from his eyes, and Nureyev leaned down so that their foreheads touched, eyes closed, still holding Juno’s other hand like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground. They stood together for a moment in silence, the only sound the hum of the heating system and their own unnecessary breathing.

And then Juno let his hand slip out of Nureyev’s, and he turned away, with a huge yawn that conveniently gave him an excuse to change the subject. “So even the undead need to sleep, huh?”

“You might even say we sleep like the dead,” Nureyev said. “Get some rest. We can figure out what to do in the morning.”

“Okay,” Juno said, kicking off his shoes and slumping back against the pillow, not even bothering to get under the sheets,.

“I’ll be here for you,” Nureyev said, “when you wake up. I know what this is like, and I will help you get through it.”

“Okay,” Juno said again, and he meant to say more, to ask _why_ , to try to explain to Nureyev what he was feeling even though he didn’t understand it himself, but he was too tired to force any of the words out, too tired to do more than hum sleepily, almost contentedly, as Nureyev pulled the covers up over him and kissed him tenderly on the forehead.

He woke again before dawn, with Nureyev still sleeping soundly beside him, and left before he had a chance to change his mind. He was still horribly, desperately hungry.

He did a lot of sleeping, those first few days, sleeping and pacing and drinking, but no matter how drunk he got he was still unbearably thirsty, until finally he was forced to admit that alcohol wasn’t a substitute for blood. It was around that time when Rita found him, showed up at his apartment and alternated between fussing over him and scolding him for disappearing like that. And then she helped him rob a blood bank. Not a real one, not one of the ones that delivered blood donations to people in need, but the kind that convinced desperate people—students who couldn’t afford tuition, parents who couldn’t feed their children—to sell their blood to some company who turned around and repackaged it and sold it to rich folks who wants to stay young forever. Juno might be a literal vampire, but as far as he was concerned, they were the real bloodsucking parasites around here.

He still wasn’t fond of blood, but he got used it, especially once Rita pointed out that he didn’t have to look at it while he was drinking—“honestly, Mista Steel, they invented sippy cups for a reason”—and he figured out how to wear sunglasses that fit over his eyepatch.

He could’t bring himself to think about that day, that night, about Nureyev, let alone say his name, and so he didn’t notice until far, far too late that he couldn’t even if he tried. It was fitting, in a way, the metaphorical pain of a self-inflicted broken heart becoming literal, as whenever he tried to whisper Nureyev’s name to himself his throat burned, like he was choking on the tears he wouldn’t let himself cry.

 

VII.

Newsreels on Kesh didn’t deal much with Martian politics, so it was a shock for Peter to see Hyperion City projected in big flashy red letters across the screen in the waiting area of the spaceport. His shuttle off-world had been delayed by weather, or possibly by some kind of political unrest in the sector through which their flight path would take them, which was already making him a little bit edgy since the longer he stayed on this planet, the greater the chance that someone would notice the priceless heart-sized emerald wrapped in several layers of newspaper and stuff into his cabin bag.

He pretended not to be listening, watching the screen over the tops of his glasses and acting like he was still focused on his book, a paperback romance he’d picked up at a spaceport newsstand and would have enjoyed much more if he didn’t recognize his own melodramatic situation in its pages. Hopeless pining and star-crossed love were only fun to read about if you weren’t personally at that moment hopelessly pining over an ex-lover several star systems away.

So he watched as the newscasters discussed the situation in Hyperion, the death of the mayor, the rebuilding of Oldtown, the death of the new mayor, and several conspiracy theories, each more wild than the last, and there was nothing specific to indicate that Juno had been involved except that he had to be. If Peter knew him at all—though he was forced to admit that maybe he didn’t really know him all that well after all—he wouldn’t have been able to sit quietly and let a mystery this big go unsolved, to let a threat to his city go unanswered.

He had been doing better recently at putting Juno and Mars and Hyperion out of his mind. He had almost convinced himself that he really was fine with Juno hating him, Juno walking out on him and never wanting to see him again if it meant he was alive, and he didn’t regret it, exactly, and he had always on some level known that loving Juno was going to get him hurt but some part of him had still held onto the hope that it would work out anyway.

But it hadn’t, and so he kept busy, had booked himself a ticket on the longest flight he could afford and stowed away to get even farther. He robbed casinos and museums and banks and warehouses, talked his way into the homes of the rich and the famous and the wealthy. He took jobs for money, for favors, for something to do, because if he stood still for too long he would have to think about what he was running from.

He had realized too late what it meant when Juno’s name burned his throat worse than that horrible harsh whiskey he drank, that he had finally found someone that he believed in, a person who could be a home, and every time he said he knew he got exactly what he deserved.

The newscasters concluded their discussion of Martian politics, seeming amused by the mystery and the drama of it all, a piece of trivia from somewhere so far away that it seemed like meaningless, almost fictional. They moved on to a bit of speculation about the upcoming marriage between the Duke of Kesh and his husband, and Peter closed his book and went to the service desk to see about changing the destination on his ticket.

 

VIII.

Juno thought he was getting better at not seeing Nureyev everywhere, at not looking for his face in every crowded street, seeing his eyes and his hands and that specific sharp line of his jaw in passing stranger, but apparently not, since he’d caught a glimpse of sunglasses and dark hair out of the corner of his eye and nearly called out. If his heart could still beat, it would have been fluttering, and what stopped him from making a complete fool of himself wasn’t that there was no one Nureyev could be here, it was that Juno had no business approaching him even if he was. Then he told himself he was being ridiculous, that not everyone with sunglasses and dark hair was Nureyev, even if they also had his long limbs and were loitering in a way that looked suspiciously like they were casing the bank across the street.

They were leaning against the wall, hands in their pockets, face partially hidden by the turned-up collar of their long coat— _see, that couldn’t possibly be him, does that look like something he would wear, it’s something you would wear so definitely not_ —and the endless stream of people and cars rushing past made it impossible for Juno to get a good look.

So he very purposefully turned away. He was already running late for another meeting with his latest client, a bossy socialite who hated being kept waiting, and he was being ridiculous, there was no way Nureyev would be on Mars for any reason, with an entire universe waiting for him elsewhere and a universe’s worth of reasons to stay away, and even if it was him somehow, by some coincidence or miracle, he wouldn’t want to talk to Juno anyway, not with all of the _everything_ between them, the promises, the lies, the leaving and the returning and the chances they’d had and missed and thrown away. Juno was getting better at believing in second chances, after years of barely even believing in first chances, but a third chance for this for him was still a bit too good to be true.

He went to his meeting, tried to put Nureyev and the stranger on the street corner out of his mind, almost succeeded but this case wasn’t quite interesting enough for that.

And then he walked home, past the same street corner, and the stranger was still there and they made eye contact, accidentally, across the crowd, and . Suddenly it was hard to swallow, and if his heart could still beat it would be pounding out of his chest and he was frozen, trying to force his feet to move and he was walking away and then he heard his voice, soft and more uncertain than Juno had ever heard, saying his name like a question, like a prayer and he waited and Nureyev said, simply, “You look well.”

And then he turned away, and Juno somehow forced himself to move, caught him by the wrist and somehow he was still surprised that he couldn’t feel a pulse, because Nureyev was just so _alive_ in a way that Juno has never quite managed to feel for himself.

He’d felt like a dead lady walking for so many years that becoming an undead being who drank blood to survive honestly mostly felt like the worst, most obvious metaphor made literal, which made it all the more ironic that it was only since then that he’d really decided that he did want to live.

“Wait,” he said, barely managing to choke the word out, and then, clearing his throat, again, louder: “Wait.” Nureyev paused, didn’t take the step he was about to take, but still light on his feet, leaning forward like a dancer, like a bird about to take flight, his face hooded by shadow. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said. “I think we should talk.”

Nureyev’s smile looked like it was trying to be cool and collected, a suave smirk, but a little too eager, too trusting, for some reason, and Juno felt suddenly vulnerable, as though that look had split him open as surely as a plasma knife. “We do have lots to talk about,” Nureyev said finally, like he’d been trying to come up with something to say and that was the most neutral thing he could manage.

“Wanna come back to my place?” Juno said.

“I would love to,” said Nureyev, flashing a grin that was all teeth.

 

IX.

 

Juno had held his wrist just a moment too long—the same wrist he drank from all those months ago, with a jagged little scar from his teeth that never entirely healed—and Peter felt the phantom touch of his hand the whole way back. He watched as Juno fumbled with the lock of his front door and invited him inside, looking like he was barely holding it together, and neither of them said much which was fine, as long as they talked—or didn’t talk—eventually. And to be honest, Peter was nervous too and yeah, they really really needed to talk, and he knew that, but mostly he just wanted to hold Juno, to wrap him in his arms and rest his chin on his head and remind himself of how well they fit together because they were here and alive and together, and what more proof did anyone need that miracles could happen?

“So,” Juno said, once he had run out of polite host thing to do—he’d taken Peter’s coat and hung it next to his own, nearly identical though with considerable more scorch marks, offered him a drink at least three times, taken a rather dusty handle of whisky out of the cabinet, considered it, sneezed, put it away, and poured them both water instead—“uh. Welcome back, I guess.”

“So,” Peter echoed, finally taking pity on Juno and sitting down, and he thought about putting his feet up on Juno’s desk, to really complete the picture of nonchalance, but decided that might be a bit too much.

“I’m sorry,” Juno said finally, still not meeting Peter’s eyes, voice rough enough that if Peter didn’t know better—didn’t know that people like them literally couldn’t catch a cold—he would’ve thought Juno was getting sick. “I shouldn’t have run away but I was just overwhelmed, I guess. Everything felt like too much.”

“It was a lot,” said Peter. “I don’t blame you for leaving, but I wish you’d told me.” He paused, and when Juno didn’t say anything, he said, “I can’t regret saving your life, but I am truly sorry, for what it cost.”

“I don’t blame you,” said Juno, and if there were sweeter words in any language Peter didn’t think he wanted to here them. “I think I understand now. I didn’t, at first, I didn’t know why you’d been so desperate to save my life, didn’t think it was worth saving, didn’t think someone like you should be eternally burdened by someone like me.” He said all of that very quickly, as though afraid Peter was going to interrupt him, as if Peter could have done anything in that moment other than watch Juno as if caught under his spell.

“Thank you,” Peter said, not quite sure himself whether he was thanking Juno for his forgiveness or his honesty.

“I guess I’ve just been doing a lot of thinking lately,” Juno said. “Figuring some stuff out that I maybe should’ve figured out a while ago. Stuff that I definitely needed to figure out for myself before…” He hesitated, chewing on his lip, and Peter still wasn’t used to seeing him with fangs. It wasn’t a bad look, all things considered. “I wasn’t ready for any of it. Leaving Mars, being like this, being with you. Felt too much like a promise that I couldn’t keep.” His hands were moving as he spoke, gesturing as though he could feel out the shape of what he meant, what he felt, and it seemed almost like a tangible thing between them, like if Peter reached out he could touch it too. “I panicked,” he said finally. “I think I would’ve anyway, even if it weren’t for, you know, everything. Just for the record, so you can stop looking so guilty. It wasn’t just the vampire thing.”

“I’m sure that didn’t help, though,” said Peter, and Juno laughed, and it was a good sound, more precious than anything he had ever stolen, more precious because it could not be stolen, could only be gifted, and here was Juno, giving it to him. “It was too much to ask, and I should’ve known better.” He paused, rested one hand on the counter in the space between them. “But the offer is still open.”

Juno studied him for a moment, and then reached out and took his hand. “You know what? I think we can actually make this work. And maybe this sounds crazy and you can call me a fool all you want but I think I’m ready to try this again.” It felt like a dream, better than a dream, because here was Juno, offering him everything, offering him another chance, because Peter couldn’t give up the stars and Juno couldn’t give up his city but there was space for them both in between. He realized he was staring when he noticed Juno giving him a strange look, paused with his glass halfway to his mouth. “What, is there something on my face?”

“Only your smile, darling,” Peter said, and Juno flushed and set his glass down abruptly. “I’ve missed you.”

And then Juno was kissing him, fiercely and desperately, hands grasping at clothes, knees between thighs, teeth scraping at lips and necks and shoulders, and it was a good thing neither of them needed to breathe anymore because Peter didn’t plan on breaking for air anytime soon.

 

X.

Rita answered the door cautiously—she’d been doing that more recently, since all that business with the mayor and the Souls, and then the whole thing with Juno’s last client, that marketing person, the one with the sharks—just in case someone was coming to kidnap her but honestly mostly just expecting it to be someone trying to sell insurance or a client who couldn’t be bothered to call ahead—and was completely caught off-guard by the sight of Sasha on her office doorstep, wearing the Dark Matters shades but with a leather jacket and thigh-high boots instead of her normal work uniform. Rita thought she could feel her brain short-circuiting on the spot.

“Back again so soon?” Rita said, once she’d gotten over her surprise, though surprise was a mild word for what she was feeling. “Thought you said you were gonna be busy with work for a while.”

Sasha shrugged, checked her watch, and said, “I am. But I wanted to stop by anyway.”

“Oh,” Rita said. “Mr. Steel isn’t here right now, but you’re welcome inside if you want. I wasn’t expecting guests and we’re almost outta snacks but I should be able to whip something up.”

“That’s no problem,” Sasha said. “I still owe you a coffee date.”

“Well, technically we already did that,” Rita said, before she could stop herself, even though the absolute last thing she should be doing was discouraging Sasha from spending time with her based on something as silly as that. She blamed the fact that her brain was fizzing and sparking because Sasha had called it a date, which had to mean what she thought it meant, right? People didn’t just go around showing up at friend-of-a-friend’s offices and talking about dates unless they meant date-dates, not just like when she said _it’s a date_ to Juno to make sure he remembered that they had plans to go to the movies or something.

The coffee shop Sasha took her to was decorated like the sort of place you went on a date-date. Sasha, sleek and sharp and elegant, looked distinctly out of place amongst the brightly colored cushions and lacy tablecloths, but Rita was watching her the whole time out of the corner of her eye and her smile never faded, and it might’ve been the rosy lighting but Rita could’ve sworn she was blushing.

“I’ll get us drinks,” Rita said. “Oolong for you, right?”

“You remembered,” Sasha said.

“Of course I did,” Rita said. “I have an excellent memory.”

“You really do,” Sasha said. “It’s very impressive. You’re very impressive.”

“Aw, thanks,” Rita said. “You are too. I was gonna say, especially when it comes to remembering things about pretty ladies, but then you started complimenting me again and I got all distracted. I’m gonna go get those drinks now. Bye!” She turned and walked away before she could ramble on any more, but she couldn’t concentrate while giving her order and accidentally asked for two oolongs plus her personal favorite drink with two shots of espresso, extra whipped cream, and three different flavors of syrup—which Juno had, on various occasions, called an abomination and an offense to the concept of tastebuds, but he drank blood and claimed to like the taste of cheap whiskey so really he had no room to talk—and she ended up having to balance all three mugs as she made her way back to the table.

The table was small enough that when she sat down across from Sasha and pulled her chair in their knees bumped together, and barely wide enough to fit all of the drinks plus the fake candle plus the vase of holographic flowers, but Sasha reached across, careful not to knock anything over, and took Rita’s hand.

“I’m glad I met you, Rita,” she said. “And if it’s alright with you, I’d like to keep getting to know you. You’re a remarkable woman, and you make me feel, well, you know.” Ordinarily Rita might’ve asked her to clarify that, but with the way she was watching Rita so intently, her cheeks flushed, holding her hand like it was the most precious thing in the universe, Rita thought she knew exactly what she meant.

“Yeah,” Rita said. “Me too. And since we’re talking about feelings, just so we’re all on the same page here, is it okay that I kinda want to kiss you now?”

“Yes,” Sasha said, “although that might be a little bit difficult given,” she nodded at the collection of extremely breakable items on the table between them, “all that. It’s occurring to me that I didn’t plan this very well.” She kissed Rita’s hand instead, and Rita’s face ached from how widely that made her smile. “Actually, why don’t you sit next to me?” Sasha’s side of the table was against the wall, with one long bench instead of individual chairs, but the tables next them were empty and there was nothing to stop Rita from sitting down next to Sasha, their legs pressed together, Sasha still clasping one of her hands, her other hand cupping the back of Sasha’s neck, and when Rita kissed her she tasted of tea and lipstick and possibility, and she shivered and pulled her closer as she felt Sasha’s teeth against her lips.

 

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for some blood/gore (not exactly graphic depictions of violence but definitely depictions of severe bodily harm, mainly in one scene based on Final Resting Place, including a wound that is self-inflicted but not in a self-harm way), depictions/discussions of depression (about the same level as canon), some discussion/depiction of alcoholism (similar level to canon), no explicitly sexual content but there is some consensual blood drinking and a bunch of making out
> 
> title is from damn these vampires by the mountain goats
> 
> hope you enjoyed me being entirely on my bullshit, you can find me on tumblr at bronanlynch or on twitter at @s_artemisios where I mainly yell abt friends at the table (you're more than welcome to yell at me for the counter/weight references, the only way I know how to do space worldbuilding is shove together a bunch of references from every piece of sci-fi media I consume)
> 
> and you can find Jay and more of their awesome art on twitter at @gaybugboy


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